


five times katsuki yuuri was extremely ace

by winchilsea



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Katsuki Yuuri, Foot Fetish, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 22:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10371639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchilsea/pseuds/winchilsea
Summary: Not including the infamous “my eros is katsudon” scene because that’s too obvious and would be cheating.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing I'm apologizing for is the excessive use of em dashes.

**one.**  
Going to Detroit had meant many things, most of which revolved around being a competitive figure skater. And once Yuuri allowed himself to be persuaded to going to a party, going to Detroit also meant unabashedly putting his hands on someone, and then that person also putting their hands on him. With the help of a healthy dose of alcohol.

People are warm, that’s the thing, but Yuuri’s always liked the abstract thought of people more than the reality. Abstract-Yuuri doesn’t have to negotiate with his anxiety and nervousness, or be hyper-aware of his limbs and breathing, or worry about whether or not he has bad breath, or be afraid that he’s being really awkward, or—

The point is this: cuddling requires either a lot of trust or a lot alcohol, and Detroit gives Yuuri college parties overflowing with alcohol. (It’ll give him trust later, but by then Yuuri learns a thing or two about himself.)

So: Yuuri, alcohol, and a desire to get really, really close to people.

The music and the people are so loud that Yuuri can already feel his throat going hoarse before he even opens his mouth to stammer-shout at the boy leaning against the countertop next to him. He’s not really sure what he’s saying, but between his accent and his faltering grasp on English grammar, the boy smiling at him probably isn’t sure either.

That’s fine. Yuuri has no fucking idea what the boy’s saying, so they’re even.

They get to kissing (Phichit will be able to tell Yuuri later all the different euphemisms), which is nice, but the bruise-tight grip on his waist and the warm hand stroking his stomach is even nicer. A content sound tumbles out of him a little too loud, and the boy kissing him pulls away. 

Yuuri blinks at him, vision blurry from smudged, crooked glasses, but doesn’t start to protest until the hands are withdrawn.

“Don’t worry,” he says, darting back in to kiss Yuuri again and shout in his ear. “Just moving us someplace private, yeah?”

His throat hurts, so Yuuri nods and lets himself be led through a door, up the stairwell, and into a room. 

Kissing involves more saliva than Yuuri thought it would. It’s not bad. It’s not nice either, but it’s not bad. The hands on him though—that’s amazing. He hears himself hum, like the sound is being stroked from him. Like he’s a cat. Yes. That’s—that’s the analogy he’s looking for. A cat. Purring.

Yuuri wants to be this warm for the rest of his life. He puts his hands up the boy’s shirt—Yuuri should get his name after this maybe—and just lets himself feel the heat soaking into his skin.

“This is really, really nice,” Yuuri mumbles.

“It’ll get better in just a moment,” the boy says, smiling and pulling away.

Bereft, Yuuri leans back against the door and just stares. Everything’s a little fuzzy and light, and he’s shaking in a good way. He thinks. It’s hard to tell with it all muddled up inside his head. He wants the boy to come back, the boy who—

Is currently taking off his shirt? 

Oh. Oh, he just—shoved his pants down. Underwear included.

Laughter bubbles out of him. Yuuri covers his mouth with one hand, but it doesn’t help. He snickers. This is so weird. 

“Oh my god,” Yuuri says, and then slaps another hand over his mouth. His shoulders shake, his cheeks hurt. He presses his lips together to keep the sounds in, but it’s useless, all of it. The laughter just keeps coming. 

The boy hastily yanks his pants back up and scrambles for his shirt. “What’s _wrong_ with you?” he asks, fighting to pull his shirt on.

“I”—Yuuri gasps with laughter, hiccuping until he feels tears coming out—“I don’t even know your name!” 

Rinse, repeat. Yuuri learns to stop letting cute boys lead him somewhere more private.

 

**two.**  
At first, Yuuri was nervous about getting a new roommate. Yuuri knows how fellow skaters can get. Yuuri knows there are relatively little safety measures when it comes to human nature. Yuuri does not want spend the next few years in Detroit feeling hedged in and uncomfortable in the only private space he has to call his own.

Celestino promised him that he’d become fast friends with the new skater he’d taken under his wing. Yuuri, who had eaten lunch alone in the stairwell all through high school because his classmates always blinked owlishly at him whenever he made a stuttering overture at friendship, does not bother telling Celestino how wrong he is and instead resigns himself to the inevitable.

Then Phichit sweeps into his life, a force of nature pivoting on the end of a selfie stick. 

“Phichit?” Yuuri mumbles, eyes too dry to open more than a crack.

“Yes, roomie?” Phichit’s glowing from the light of his cell phone.

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the blanket higher. “You’re in my bed.”

One of Phichit’s hands blindly tries to pat Yuuri on the head and ends up slapping him several times instead. “You were napping,” Phichit explains. “Super cute. Here, look, I took pictures.” The phone—too bright—is thrust into Yuuri’s face. It rests against his forehead and nose as Phichit shimmies down so that he’s lying on the bed facing Yuuri. 

Clumsily fumbling with it—he drops it on his face twice—Yuuri turns onto his back to hold the phone up and squint at it from a distance where he can actually make out what’s in it. There’s Yuuri asleep and drooling into his pillow and Phichit holding up a peace sign in the foreground. The text running across it reads “#dreamingofviktornikiforov,” accompanied by a heart emoji.

“Who did you send this to?”

“Mari,” Phichit answers, plucking the phone out of Yuuri’s hand. “Also, super important question for you.” When Yuuri asked once how Phichit fell so easily into informal English sentence structure, Phichit had sat him down in front of his laptop and they watched approximately twelve hours of movies about American teenagers in the nineties. “So I was wondering—because you have all these posters of Viktor on your side of the room, and it’s not like none of them aren’t a _little_ risqué—do you think about Viktor when you jerk off? And if you do, what’s going to happen when you meet him and he decides that he too wants to have your babies?”

“Phichit!” Yuuri exclaims, voice wobbling in embarrassment. He tries to get out of bed, but Phichit wraps his arms around Yuuri’s midsection.

Gently patting Yuuri’s stomach, Phichit noses against the nape of his neck and says, “Honest, genuine question. Like, would it be a dream come true? Or would that just ruin all the quality material in your spank bank forever?”

“Please stop,” Yuuri says weakly. “That’ll never happen, so it doesn’t matter.”

Five weeks ago, Phichit said, “Maybe it’ll be better if you try with someone you know?” before pulling Yuuri into his bed. He listened to Yuuri’s red-faced explanations about how he always laughed at the nice boys trying to get into his pants after they’d taken off _their_ pants, nodded decisively, and—well, Phichit is a person of action and getting to the bottom of things.

They kissed—“It sounds so boring when you put it like that,” Phichit protests—before moving onto heavy petting. “You can pretend I’m Viktor,” Phichit whispered teasingly, and Yuuri’s lashes fluttered as he thought about his idol warm and real in his arms, and for a second Yuuri thought that it was going to happen, he was finally going to do this without laughing. 

No luck. Yuuri started giggling the moment Phichit’s hand found its way under his pants, and any attempts to reset the mood only set off another round of giggles.

Two weeks ago, Phichit handed him a box and said with the air someone bestowing a sacred gift, “It doesn’t have to be your hand every time.” Yuuri has to live with the knowledge that his roommate and best friend knows where to order sex toys on the internet that comes in discreet packaging even when the content is decidedly anything _but_ discreet. 

“I’m just _saying_ ”—Yuuri has no idea what time it is, but he hopes Phichit hasn’t turned off his alarm to end his nap—“that I googled it, and I’m trying to establish a baseline here. Meeting _the_ Viktor Nikiforov and realizing that he would absolutely tap that: nightmare or dream come true?”

Just trying to remove Viktor from the realm of imagination to reality makes Yuuri uncomfortable—it could never happen, he shouldn’t even be thinking it, the very act of entertaining the possibility feels arrogant. “I don’t know,” Yuuri says, miserable.

Apparently that’s enough of an answer for Phichit, who hums, drums his fingers on Yuuri’s stomach, and says, “Okay. Well, there’s a word for it if you wanna use it. And you can—you can stop trying, I guess? To have sex with boys who swoon at the sight of your bashful smile.”

“ _What_?” Yuuri chokes out.

“Shhh,” Phichit says, squirming a little. “It’s nap time. Talk later.”

 

**three.**  
The box in Viktor’s hands feels like an accusation, with its lid off and contents fully visible. Their apartment— _Viktor’s_ apartment—is still littered with unopened cardboard boxes. Most of what’s left are Viktor’s, but he waved an airy hand and said none of them were essential, and he’d rather they unpacked Yuuri’s few boxes instead.

Yuuri’s hands are a little sticky from peeling tape off boxes, and he’s counting backward from ten in his head over and over again, like a glitching rocket launch. Ten, nine, eight—shit shit shit—seven, six— _fuck_ —five, fourthreetwo one. 

“These are yours?” Viktor asks, voice quiet. He’s not looking at Yuuri but at the collection of sex toys that steadily grew during his years at college with Phichit.

“Yes,” Yuuri says, too loud and shaky. His face is on fire. _He's_ on fire. 

Viktor still won’t look up. “Oh. You use them?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says again. Ten, nine, fuck fuck fuck.

That’s when Viktor finally looks up, eyes sparkling. Yuuri takes an involuntary step back. 

Viktor’s mouth opens and closes. One hand hovers over the box, like he wants to reach in and pull one of the toys out. Yuuri makes mental list of what would the most to least embarrassing, starting with the novelty glass plugs and ending with the sensible bullet vibrator.

“Can I watch you?” Viktor asks.

“No,” Yuuri says immediately without actually hearing the question. “Wait. What?”

Viktor is putting the lid back on, setting the box down, saying, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, alarm neatly cauterizing his growing panic attack, “ _what_?”

It’s one of the new, bright things Yuuri’s learned about himself ever since meeting Viktor and falling in love. Any energy being stockpiled for an imminent panic attack will immediately get diverted to fixate on Viktor’s own emotional breakdown. Break glass in case of emergency, except Yuuri turns eerily calm, detached from the situation.

(“Seeing Viktor cry—I never thought,” Yuuri said in Barcelona, the fact of Viktor’s tears something as distant as the stars in the sky, like knowing that you’re being hurtled through space without really knowing it.)

He has one hand on Viktor’s cheek, the other on his shoulder. “Viktor?” The hand on Viktor’s shoulder drifts; Yuuri smooths a thumb over Viktor’s collarbone. It doesn’t matter that Viktor’s bitten down on his bottom lip and refuses to answer. Yuuri heard the question, he just kind of wanted to hear it again, to get confirmation that Viktor is actually interested in something like that—that Viktor is interested in _him_. It's always a novelty, every time. “You can’t watch,” Yuuri tells him.

The answer Yuuri gave is one he both has and has not turned over extensively. 

Viktor gives him a very serious nod. “I understand, Yuuri, darling, love of my life, I never meant to—” Yuuri’s thumb has migrated to Viktor’s lips. 

“You can’t watch,” Yuuri repeats. “Not while I’m—while I’m,” he trails off, unable to make himself say it out loud. “But I can record it? If you’d like. And then you can watch later?”

The world tilts, and Yuuri yelps, instinctively wrapping his legs around Viktor and scrabbling at his shoulders to keep himself from toppling over. Viktor spins them once, twice, then his footing slips, or he trips on the many, many boxes scattered in the living room, and they’re falling.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says once they’ve both caught their breath. “Can I pick the toy?”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri mumbles, hitting him. He still says yes.

 

**four.**  
By all accounts, it starts as a normal foot massage. But Yuuri keeps making soft, pleased sounds and wiggling his toes until Viktor’s hand tightens around his ankle and he says, in a strained voice, “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you?”

Yuuri—driven by curiosity—grinds his heel against Viktor’s crotch. 

They use the bandages meant to wrap Yuuri’s feet to clean up. Yuuri doesn’t laugh.

Not until later, at least.

 

**five.**  
“Oh,” Yuuri says, pausing in the doorway to the bedroom. Their bedroom. His and Viktor’s. There’s still a surreal quality to this fact, and it usually has more to do with Yuuri’s disbelief at his own happy ever after and not the sight in front of him. “Sorry for interrupting? You can keep going.”

Viktor doesn’t move, frozen like those marble statues of gods reclining in faraway ecstasy. Or something. He looks beautiful, with the blush on his skin under a sheen of sweat—Yuuri’s pretty sure the appropriate word is glistening—even with the slightly stunned expression on his face.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says after visibly swallowing. It does nothing to ease the scratchiness of his voice. “You’re supposed to be at—”

Viktor lets the sentence drop there so Yuuri continues, “Yurio’s? Yes.” He shrugs. “I wanted to give him and Otabek some space, so I came home. You really don’t have to stop,” he adds when Viktor moves to slide the—dildo? vibrator?—toy out of himself. 

“My husband is home,” Viktor says, beaming at him despite his flushed face, “so I’m going to cuddle with him.”

“We can cuddle”—there’s a long, low moan that doesn’t come from either of them—“after.” Yuuri looks at the phone lying next to Viktor on their bed. “Is that mine? Were you watching it?”

Viktor’s lashes drop, and he nods. 

“Oh. That’s—oh.” Yuuri fidgets, but he feels—calm. Pleased, almost. “That’s good,” he says. “I’m—I’m glad.”

“Let me freshen up,” Viktor says after he pauses the video, “and then you can tell me about how you beat Yura at video games.” It’s one of Viktor’s great character flaws, the fact that he doesn’t know a thing about video games. “Yes?”

Yuuri takes a breath, resisting the urge to look down at his hands. “No,” he says. “I’m going to go sleep on the couch.” At the sight of Viktor’s heartbroken look, Yuuri plows on. “Finish, please? I want you to.”

“I’m not going to make my _husband_ sleep on the couch because I’m masturbating,” Viktor tells him sternly.

It takes less than a second for Yuuri to cross the room and put a hand on Viktor’s—sweaty, heaving, glistening—chest and push him back down on the bed. The blush staining his skin hasn’t gone down any, and neither has his erection. Yuuri reaches across Viktor for his phone and starts the video back up again before pressing it into his hands.

“Come get me when you’re done,” Yuuri says, brushing Viktor’s hair out of his eyes. 

_Nightmare or dream come true?_ Phichit asked him once. Back then, Yuuri didn’t have an answer because he hadn’t even wanted to ruminate on the possibility. Now, just looking at Viktor—he looks like a dream, except real. 

When Viktor tries to protest, Yuuri taps the phone. “Don’t let it go to waste,” he says and then kisses Viktor’s forehead. 

Viktor throws an arm over his eyes and groans. “Yuuri, you—” There are no more words after that, just the blush spread out across Viktor’s chest deepening.

“Have fun,” Yuuri says before closing the bedroom door behind him. 

In the living room, Yuuri stretches on the couch and turns the TV on to a cooking channel. He falls asleep quickly, worn out after a long day of standing in line at the game store with Yurio and Otabek followed by a long night of marathoning video games. 

It’s almost noon when Yuuri wakes up. One of Yuuri’s legs has gone numb, and there’s a damp spot on his shirt that’s either from Viktor’s drool or his habit of going to bed with wet hair. Yuuri keeps telling him that he’ll go bald if he doesn’t stop, but even the threat of balding doesn’t stop his bad habit.

Yuuri wiggles one arm free to stroke Viktor’s cheek. “We’re both going to be sore today,” Yuuri tells him.

“Mmmm,” Viktor says. The hand up Yuuri’s shirt climbs higher. 

“Get up,” Yuuri says, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Viktor shakes his head, burrows even closer, and does a fine job of cutting off what’s left of Yuuri’s circulation to three of his limbs.

Resigned to his fate as a pillow, Yuuri holds up his hand, watching the light strike his ring.

 

 

 

 

**zero.**  
“Can’t,” Yuuri slurs when Viktor tries to strip him of his pants, “can’t, can’t.”

Viktor rubs Yuuri’s knee to soothe him. “It’s okay,” he says, voice trembling. His entire world has been shattered and rearranged, and he can’t believe that the man in front of him is real, that tonight really happened. “I’m just making you comfortable for bed. Will you let me do that, Yuuri?”

He means: please, please, _please_ let me take care of you for the rest of our lives.

“Gonna laugh,” Yuuri mumbles, turning to bring a pillow over his head. 

“I would never,” Viktor promises, coaxing the pillow from Yuuri before he accidentally suffocates himself. “How could I?” It’s probably best if he doesn’t bring up the fact that there’s not much left for Yuuri to hide after that strip show on the pole.

“ _Me_ ,” Yuuri huffs when he loses the pillow. “I always laugh.”

Viktor has no idea what to say to that or what it even means. “Let’s get you ready for bed,” is what he settles on.

“Sleep?” Yuuri asks.

“Yes,” Viktor says, heart impossibly light, “sleep.” He leaves Yuuri’s slacks and suit jacket folded over the hotel chair, and he turns back around—to say goodbye, for one last look—and finds Yuuri staring at him, sitting up. 

The lamplight is yellow. In the hallway are the soft murmurs of voices, the slamming of hotel doors. Here, it’s just the two of them. Quiet and still, unlike the bright lights and clinking of champagne glasses in the banquet hall. Yuuri hooks two of his fingers into Viktor’s belt loop, tugs him closer.

“I’ve never had sex,” Yuuri says, sounding closer to being sober than he has all night. “I tried, but I always laughed.” He thumbs at the button of Viktor’s slacks, looking up at Viktor with an almost sad expression. “I’d laugh at Viktor too,” he says, apologetic, before turning around and crawling under the sheets. 

It’s a sight Viktor is going to cherish for many, many nights.

“I’ll think of you,” Yuuri promises. “Like always.” He reaches out, and Viktor bends to press a kiss to his hand before swallowing hard and stumbling backward out of the room. 

Viktor has to take a moment in the hallway to calm down, heart thumping in his chest because Yuuri Katsuki in an angel that swept him off his feet in a way that included pole dancing and just implied that he masturbates, regularly, to thoughts of Viktor. He wants to go back inside, to curl up beside Yuuri, to kneel at his feet, to be there when he wakes up tomorrow morning. 

In April, Viktor comes to Hasetsu with the snow and remembers Yuuri saying, “I always laughed.” But Yuuri doesn’t laugh, he just runs away.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://winchilsea.tumblr.com)!


End file.
